Purge of the Innocent
by hellosweetie17
Summary: Bodies of deceased children have been found throughout the streets of Europe and the reapers of London and Germany are clueless as to who or what could be killing them...Full Summary Chapter 1
1. Chapter 1

**Full Summary:**

 _Bodies of deceased children have been found throughout the streets of Europe and the reapers of London and Germany are clueless as to who or what could be killing them._

 _With only a single lead, William T. Spears, Ronald Knox, Grelle Sutcliff, Alan Humphries, and Othello are deployed on an undercover investigation to the location where the most recent victims were found: the Manor of Claude Faustus and his son, Alois Trancy._

 _Assisted by the Undertaker, Ciel Phantomhive and his demon butler, Sebastian Michaelis, the reapers find their way into the manor and assume various roles to ensure their stay. Through strife and struggle, it is their goal to bring an end to the culprit and retrieve the stolen souls of the innocent children wrongfully reaped and murdered before their time._

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 **Present day**

A loud crack filled the air, the tail of a leather whip snapping at its end. Overjoyed by the sound, the handler couldn't help but laugh as he lashed the whip once more, watching it hit the ground with great ferocity. The vibrations created by the quick motion crept into his hand and burrowed into his veins, rushing up his arm and to his heart; adrenaline at the helm. A beautifully addictive sensation, he was enticed by the comfortable grip and how it seemed to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, as if it was designed for him and no one else. Not to mention, he was the only one able to produce such high notes from those he beat into submission, writing a musical piece sound to his young ears.

Little fourteen year old Alois longed to partake in a long-running tradition at the Faustus Manor: welcoming a new member to the refined home. He was the best, he thought, in making a lasting impression in those whom were brave enough to agree to the harsh employment terms. However, his chance to greet another unfortunate soul was taken by someone else, someone in need of a lesson. It was his stepbrother's turn to experience the delight of wielding the leather whip, recently constructed with the blessing of a few cows or pigs—he couldn't remember. Whether the idiot liked it or not, his brother had to learn the way of life at Faustus Manor if he wished to be treated well, otherwise the pussy may suffer the consequences unknown to man. The mere thought caused Alois to smile, despite his blood brimming with envy.

Before he could pull the whip over his shoulder a third time, footsteps echoed in the distance, cascading in the direction of the room. His full head of platinum blond hair swished toward the door, his blue eyes sparkling with merriment and excitement. A man in tattered, dirty clothes was dragged across the ground, softly grunting as rubble scratched and dug into his swollen flesh. Strands of dark hair hung in front of his bruised face, drenched in sweat and blood, threatening the security of his glasses partially dangling at his ears. Awestruck, Alois watched the pathetic waste struggle in vain as he was pulled along.

Trancy giggled and silently cheered as the vermin was tossed to the ground at his feet. He rolled the handle of the whip in between his sweaty palms, eager to strike the lowlife at least once. That was all he needed: one chance to scrawl blood across the walls and break the man's skin, to write a crescendo of screams in his growing masterpiece, but no… There would be plenty of time to bask in the afterglow, he told himself, until then…

 _Why does Ronald have to get this one?_ It was obvious the nancy boy didn't like to welcome newcomers; mother saved him each and every time. Except today, father forbade the woman from interfering or rescuing the princess. Little Alois was still jealous, though. Perhaps father would allow him to have a go once Ronald was finished? One could only hope!

* * *

To say Ronald Knox was nervous would be an understatement. On the third floor of the Manor, the young man paced to and fro across the bare boards of his bedroom, each one creaking underneath his feet. The honey blonde hair at the top of his head was damp with sweat, the longer dark strands matted to the nape of his neck. A steady stream of the salty liquid trickled down the center of his back, forming a rather ugly stain in his white dress shirt. To make matters worse, he felt like he was choking with the black tie neatly fastened around his neck, even after he chose to loosen it.

The repetition of his footsteps threatened to leave scuff marks on the polished cherry wood, something he would likely be reprimanded for, but he couldn't stop. How could he? He was frantic and afraid of the doom that awaited him outside, where his stepfather and stepbrother damned him to the same cruelty under the Faustus name. It was evident Ronald was unlike the others, if not on the opposite end of the spectrum. Gentle and meek in nature, he withdrew from the ceremonies in a flurry of tears, rescued by his mother before he could take hold of the whip carved by the family name. It was an act that earned stoic scrutiny from Claude and even worse ridicule from his Alois, but he refused. He refused for so long, until he had no other choice than to do it. Yet the main question still waited an answer: could he follow through with such an insane order?

"I can't do this," he heaved, the words fast and sputtered from thick saliva. His heart raced, pounded at the door of his ribcage for freedom, or a kinder fate such as death. To die of his own stern will would be sweeter than at the hands of his stepfather, a consequence he was sure he would face if he didn't do what they demanded of him.

Slowly, Ronald drew in a breath and held it for ten seconds. He repeated the exercise in hopes of calming down, but it made his stomach churn. Rather than exhaling, he quickly ran into his private bathroom and fell to the floor, barely making it to the toilet to heave and vomit into the bowl. The contents of his stomach continued to empty into the porcelain base, acid and bile burning his throat. The minutes drew on and the more intense his stomach turned, but after what felt like years, Ronald gagged one last time and lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his clammy gloved hand. He sat there, trying to regain self-control, but it was useless. The moment he stepped outdoors, he would lose all control he had over the predicament at hand. He would become a harsher man, one of the Faustus name.

"I'm not one of them," he quietly assured himself, folding his arms around both legs as they pulled into his chest. Exhausted, he tilted his forehead on his knee, but before he could catch his breath, a knock was placed on the door.

Alana Humphries-Faustus slowly walked into the bathroom, her white heels clicking on the marble tiles, her pink summer dress flowing elegantly behind her. She gently kneeled in front of her son, her modest dress pooling around her. The small woman with curly blond locks leaned closed and tucked a strand of wet hair behind his ear; her eyes sad and sympathetic.

"Honey, I tried," Alana apologized, fingers running through her distressed son's hair. Ron looked at her through tearful eyes, his bottom lip trembling as he chewed on it.

"Mother," he sniffed, his cheeks warm. "I can't."

"You can," Alana sorely insisted, grasping his hands in her chilly ones to gently squeeze. "You must. It'll be alright, my love."

"No, it won't! I'm being forced to whip somebody. How am I supposed to do that?" Ronald's eyes widened, his tone gaining volumes of fear as anxiety seized hold of him again.

Alana didn't respond, but slowly stood, pulling her son from the floor along with her. She reached to the top of his head, grooming his disheveled two-toned hair. Sadly, she placed a comforting hand on his blotched cheek, wiping the tears away with the pad of her thumb.

"We have to go, Ronald. Your stepfather and brother are waiting," she muttered through a forced smile. Taking a hold of her son's hand, she walked out of the bathroom door and through the Manor, leading him outside into the daylight.

* * *

It had been less than ten minutes since father sent mother to fetch his brother from his bedroom, but in those long, excruciating minutes, Alois' patience began to wear thin. How long did they have to wait for the pansy to arrive? There was no doubt in his mind: he would back down from the task as he had done so many times before, which made the wait all the more unbearable. If only father would grant the responsibility to him full-time, then no one would have to worry about Ronald making a fool of himself time and time again. In fact, there could come a day where he would be the one to deliver Ron's punishment—an idea he quietly reveled in. Still, a lovely daydream could saturate his nerves for so long. Snapping, he shrugged off his purple frock coat and childishly threw it to the ground with determined force; dust rose from the impact, soiling his emerald green vest.

"Alois! Calm yourself," ordered his father, Claude Faustus. He stood tall and shoulders broad, his demeanor apathetic and icy.

"Why do we have to wait for Ronald to get here? He's taking forever!"

Unmoved by his son's tantrum, Claude remained motionless, not entertaining the young boy with even so much as a look. "Your mother has gone to retrieve him."

"But—"

"They're walking out of the manor now," the man interjected before his son could continue. The gold eyes beneath his black hair narrowed as he watched his wife gracefully drag his eldest son toward them, their steps agonizingly slow. Yet somehow, Ronald managed to make his way to cower before his authoritative father. Reluctant, Knox gazed into his father's cold eyes and swallowed the thick knot at the back of his throat.

"Give your brother the whip," he instructed, his tone flat. With a sneer, Alois gave the precious item to his stepbrother, which Ronald hesitantly grasped. "Turn around," the man added.

"This is William T. Spears!" Alois cheerfully introduced. "We're here to welcome our newest employee. Say hello everyone!"

Servants gathered around the poor man muttered a chorus of synchronized, solemn hello's.

"Say hi, Ronald!" Trancy urged through gritted teeth, shoving at his older brother.

"H-hello…" the young man stammered.

Spears peered over his shoulder at the young man whom appeared to be no older than twenty-four. The panicked eyes behind the bulky, black frames almost made William pity him, then again, he was the one about to be beaten and scarred for no reason other than being on the Faustus payroll.

Ronald's tear-filled gaze connected with the hostile eyes that were the similar in color, but glared with unadulterated hatred as if he ached to condemn the blond to the deepest, most remote pits of hell. After the 'welcoming festivities', Ron was certain he would end up there anyway.

"You know what to do," Claude firmly stated. The blond made no effort to move forward but instead, looked frightfully to Alana who stood mum. Faustus grabbed the collar of his eldest's son shirt and yanked him close. "Don't look at your mother!" he growled. "Either you could do it, or your brother and I will. However, I cannot guarantee that he will live if we were welcome him. With you, there is a chance of survival. Do you understand me?" he whispered into Ron's ears, satisfied by the nod of the boy's head. "Good." And with that, he forcefully pushed his son toward their newest employee, sighing as Knox clumsily tripped over his feet.

Slowly, he stood before William whom kneeled in front of him, the two staring at each other in a dance of abhorrence and terror. Ron wished he could tell the man something other than "I'm sorry" and beg for forgiveness, but the apology would be meaningless—if not insulting. With a frenzied heartbeat and a sharp intake of breath, he raised his unsteady arm behind him and snapped it forward, the whip making contact on the first strike.

On hands and knees, William hissed through clenched teeth at the first lash—his skin slicing open, the fresh wounds separating wider with each strike. He tried to bite through the pain, only grunting with every repeated lash; his glasses tumbled to the ground, the blows lurching his body forward.

Knox winced as he plundered the man's frail body. All sound, except the whip and the birds overhead, faded into the background. He watched blood flow down the new servant's back with visions of enthusiastic crows swooping to ravage the torn flesh from the open, gushing wounds under the hot sun flooded his mind. Agonizing screams joined the birds' and whip-cracking's duet.

A warm liquid trickled down Ronald's pant leg, pooling in his shoe. His head began to swim as the nauseating sounds ratcheted in his skull. When he felt like he couldn't strike another blow, a firm hand gripped around his wrist, causing him to look fearfully at his father.

"That's enough for now," the Head of House declared, removing his hold on his son's wrist.

Ron's arm went limp, the whip sliding out of his grasp and dropping to the ground covered in splashes of blood. The blond looked down at his victim whom laid on his side, his body racking with painful sobs.

"I should've had a-go," Alois grumbled, figuring the man could have handled a bit more.

"Give Spears his glasses and take him to the infirmary. Ronald will treat him there," instructed Claude, concluding the ceremony. Without a glance at Knox, he walked to the manor with Alois sauntering behind.

Quickly, Alana walked over to Ron and pulled him into a tight embrace. Without hesitation, he slumped into her arms and put his head on her shoulder, crying into the crook of her neck. To try and comfort him, she rocked him back and forth, rubbing small circles against his lower back to soothe his nerves. "It'll be alright, honey," she whispered. "I promise."

* * *

Despite blurred vision, William saw a pair of black boots step into his line of vision, shielding the sunlight from his eyes. Flecks of dust were kicked into his face, forcing a cough from the back of his throat; he hissed as the mineral found its way into his mouth. The person above him squeaked, letting out a tiny wail.

A young boy with large, turquoise eyes dropped to the ground, frightfully looking at him. "Are you alright, Mr. William!"

Will opened his mouth to assure the strawberry-blond haired boy that he would be fine, but only managed to dry heave in response. Instinctively, Finnian reached out to place a hand on his shoulder in what should have been a gesture of comfort. However, William belted out a loud, gut-wrenching groan when the boy gripped him with a strength no mortal oughtn't possess. As quickly as he tried to comfort him, he snatched the hand away and burst into tears. "I'm so, so sorry!" he wailed, both hands covering his eyes.

Another man walked alongside Finnian and crouched beside him, his lips twitching into a frown. "You didn't mean it, Finny," assured Bard, a cigarette bobbing at the corner of his mouth. "Let's get Mr. William to the infirmary."

Once he nodded in agreement, Baldroy picked Will's glasses up with the intention of putting them in Finny's care, but thought better of it. Instead, he folded the stems of the spectacles and tucked them at the top of his apron. Raising a hand, he scratched the back of his head and looked down to the beaten man on the ground, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the situation. "Mey-Rin should be back soon with something to carry you to the infirmary," the Phantomhive chef sighed. On cue, the Phantomhive maid came running toward them from the sickroom.

"Bard, Bard! I have it!" she called out, haphazardly carrying a white cloth stretcher nestled between her arm and torso. Baldroy waved his arm above him to beckon her in their direction. Mey-Rin made it to the three men, huffing from exertion as she placed the stretcher on the ground, dust billowing up from the impact. She pushed it close to William's front to roll him on the stretcher; stomach down.

"Me and Finny are gonna turn you over," Bard informed the bloodied brunet. "It's gonna be a bumpy ride."

William softly grunted, offering only a nod of his head. His yellow-green eyes closed and he drew in a deep breath, bracing for the pain. No amount of preparation could prepare him for what came next. Although the three servants were careful not to add further injury to the tender wounds, Will let out a curdling scream—every inch of his body shivering. The briefly clotted wounds reopened and blood trickled along his skin, following the curvature of his muscles. Beads of perspiration flowed down his face, the sweat pooling in his eyes. The immense pause caused him to suck in heavy gasps, but before he could take control, he blacked out, regaining consciousness shortly later.

"Sorry," Bard mumbled beneath his breath as he stood, scratching the back of his head. He moved out of William's sight, which caused a stream of bright sun to shine in his face, adding insult to injury as he hissed.

"Eh, Finny, can you give Will your hat?"

The gardener flushed at the question and his feet shuffled from side to side as he twiddled his thumbs. "M-My…" Finnian looked at Baldroy and subtly pointed to the tattoo on his neck.

With a thoughtful hum, Baldroy grabbed the goggles around his neck and pulled them off, offering the eyewear to the small boy. "How about you take these?"

Finnian beamed with child-like wonderment and removed his hat, exchanging it with the googles. "Thank you, Bard!"

"I'm gonna put this over your face to keep the sun out," the chef assured William, whom nodded in approval. With the hat settled over his face, Bard walked to the head of the stretcher and kneeled to grab the handles—Finnian at the other end. Together, the two lifted it as gently as possible and, with cemented grasps and footing, the three Phantomhive servants made their way to the Faustus infirmary.

"I wish the young master had arrived before this happened," sighed Finnian. "Do you think he would have stopped it, Mr. Bard?"

"I think he would've if he could've," the chef replied, focused on his steps onward.

"I hope Mr. Knox can patch him up, I do," Mey-Rin voiced, blushing as she thought of the other man.

"You seem to be liking that one, Mey," Bard pointed out, taking a wide step to avoid a hole in the path. The sudden movement made William jostle to the side, but thankfully, he remained on the stretcher. Still, the blond apologized at the pained grunt.

Upon hearing the chef's words, a rush of blood burst from the maid's nose. Quickly, she slapped a hand over it to catch the coppery fluid. "N-no!" she squealed in protest, her red cheeks darkening. "He said he's studying to be a doctor, is all!"

"I'm just messing with ya," Bard laughed.

Underneath the straw hat, hidden away from suspicion, William rolled his sore eyes as he listened to the conversation.

* * *

Hours later, William awoke only to be greeted by nightfall. He was unable to recall the arrival to the infirmary, nor when he received medical attention. Had he blacked out again?

The raven-haired reaper gently shifted, able to feel the bandages on his back. Albeit sore, he moved his arms to pillow his stiff neck and looked to the side, spotting his precious glasses on a tray. With great effort and fumbling about, he finally grabbed hold of them to slide back onto his face. When his vision adjusted, he realized there was a strange object next to his pillow. Closer inspection told him it was a pen, but at that moment, a warm glow appeared to scrawl across his forearm. The familiar, sloppy penmanship covered his skin in glowing ink and he squinted, leaning in to read.

 _"I'm sorry."_

The Dispatch Supervisor closed his eyes, sighing an exhausted moan. What could he say? To form words was a difficult feat, but an even worse task to actually write on his skin once the apology disappeared.

 _"It was necessary. I'll be fine."_

In his dark room, Ronald sat on the bed, his legs crossed and still dirty from the ceremony. He hadn't bothered to change his clothes, nor had he entertained bathing despite the fact he urinated himself. Shaken, he stared at his arm, biting at his lip as he watched William's response paint his own skin with the green ink. Once the message faded, he pressed the pen against the underside of his forearm.

 _"Please don't make me do it again, Will."_ He scrawled in return.

 _"I'll try my best. It wasn't pleasant, but as I said; it was necessary."_

Tears started to slide down Ron's cheeks as the visions of William bleeding and screaming swam behind his closed eyelids. Will laid, waiting for the blond to reply, but after minutes of silence, he sensed his lover was crying.

 _"I've missed you."_ The glittering letters appeared one by one on the younger reaper's arm.

 _"It's been a while, I'd hope you'd miss me a little."_ Once the slate cleared, Ronald added, _"I missed you, too."_

William smiled at the response, though it turned into a mischievous smirk. _"What are you wearing, Mr. Knox?"_

 _"Clothes."_

 _"Would you kindly stand by your window and take off said garments?"_ William rarely instigated flirtation, but he was willing if it would lighten the blond's burden.

The young man's cheeks burned, but he hastily replied. _"I really hate you. Instead of teasing me, don't you have healing to do?"_

 _"The constant reminder of your hatred for me is why I love you so."_ William could feel Knox's eyes rolling. Pushing up his glasses, he looked out the opened window before him. It was unnaturally dark outside, the moon barely visible despite minimal clouds in the sky. A soft breeze filtered through the window and brushed through his dark hair, earning a content sigh. He was grateful for the chilly wind that kissed the abused flesh across the expanse of his back, yet he frowned once he noticed the conversation had ceased yet again.

 _"Are they treating you well?"_

Ronald chewed his lip, unsure of how to reply. He could be honest, but the thought was fleeting. The truth would create unnecessary drama when there was more than enough to deal with on their plates. Lifting the collar of his dress shirt, he tried to hide the bruise on his neck and scribbled a half truth on his arm. _"Claude and Alois are creepy bastards. We're constantly being watched by Alois and the Faustus servants. It sucks, but we've had to come up with ways to communicate. Other than that, I'm fine."_ Hopefully, Will wouldn't reap him later.

 _"And Mr. Humphries?"_

William pushed at the bridge of his glasses as a new answer appeared, squinting at the small text. _"The transformation is hard on him. Alan hides it, but I know he's tired and the Thorns aren't helping. I do my best to get him away from Claude so he can rest. It doesn't happen as often as it needs to."_

 _"Miss Sutcliff?"_

The question made the Junior Office pause. Already, he told a half truth, but he hadn't the slightest clue how to explain the situation with Sutcliff. _"Something is wrong, Will. I mean seriously wrong. Grelle won't tell me what's happening and she tells me everything."_

 _"Officer Sutcliff is a highly capable Shinigami."_

 _"Yeah, but you just got here. I've never seen Grelle like this before. I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't worried."_ Ronald hissed once he realized the tip of the pen was digging into his skin—a sign of his frustration and concern.

 _"I'll speak to her as soon as I'm able."_

 _"No… We need to send her back to Headquarters."_

"Dispatch may not let her abandon the investigation."

 _"Then we fucking send her off with Undertaker! I can't sit here anymore and…"_

The words stopped appearing mid-sentence, notifying him that Ronald had stopped writing. He was about to urge him on, but a bolt of light flashed through the sky. It was so bright, he had to shield his eyes from the blinding white shine that lit up the entire forest ahead of him. Cinematic records shot above the canopy of the surrounding trees and swayed in the air.

"Oh shit..." the blond muttered as he flew off the bed and ran to the window, jumping out only to silently land three stories below on the soft grass. He ran toward the tree line as fast as his legs enabled him, not leaving a sound or trail in his wake.

As Ron sprinted, he summoned his temporary scythe: a Corona Machete. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the demon butler jumping overhead, silverware tucked between each of his fingers. Both were prepared to strike.


	2. Chapter 2

On the ground, the blond reaper sprinted through the rustling greenery toward the white light brightening the center of the clustered trees. Ronald Knox hissed as the low hung branches snapped against his limbs and bushes riddled with jagged thorns ripped through his clothing, snagging his perspiring skin. Panting raggedly as he ran, the young agent gracefully hurdled over thick roots, fallen trees, and dirt banks. But regardless of his impeccable speed and agility, the terrain proved only to slow him down. He admonished himself for assuming his chosen route wouldn't hinder his journey; his misplaced judgement may have given the culprit additional time to flee.

In fear of the malefactor escaping yet again, Knox considered reaching for his smaller blade scythe and throwing it—the knife would get there before either pursuer did. Nevertheless, the demon butler was flying above and he couldn't risk the chance that Michaelis may get ahold of the little weapon. Ergo, the blond made a split second decision: he grabbed onto the nearest branch and hoisted himself up with a grunt, the tree limb creaking under the pressure. He nimbly hopped upward until he burst through the canopy's surface. Ron swiftly leapt from one tree to the other, each footstep barely touching their tops as he darted forth.

Moments later, the two chasers reached the inner rim of the encircled open space. Sebastian landed on a tree top, then propelled himself into the sky, with his right arm across his torso. He whipped it forward, his white-gloved fingers releasing the silvery cutlery into the white beam. Meanwhile, the younger man stealthily dropped to the ground with his Corona machete at the ready, preparing to throw it as he closed in on the suspect.

Suddenly, the lucent light went out in a blink of an eye resulting in both men missing their opportunity; their target had vanished. Michaelis' knives whizzed through the cloud of smoke that was left behind, the expensive pieces lodging themselves in an impressive tree trunk across the way. Ronald skidded to a halt to prevent himself from being immersed in the billowing pollution. He coughed and waved the offending fumes from his face. A light wind picked up and carried away the remaining wisps of smoke within the encircled clearing. The previously dimmed moon miraculously brightened, shining down upon the area as if it were an immense spotlight illuminating the abandoned display.

The blond-black haired Shinigami hesitantly approached the scene; his yellow-green eyes snapped shut. An infuriated groan burst passed his lips as he drove the tip of his scythe into the hard ground with due frustration. He took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it through his nose in an attempt to calm his pounding heart. Once his nerves had settled down, he opened up his eyes and let out of heavy sigh. He pulled the scythe from the ground and banished it.

"That's quite unfortunate," remarked Sebastian, his tone apathetic as he casually strolled past the reaper, making his way over to the trees where his silverware was embedded.

Ronald jumped as the butler spoke—the accompanying demon had slipped his mind. He glared at Michaelis' retreating form, his eyes portraying the evident disgust as he watched the man nonchalantly step over the deceased. Ignoring his tasteless comment, Knox closed the remaining gap between he and the small corpse directly sprawled in the center of the clearing. He withdrew an orange handkerchief from his trousers' pocket and covered his mouth and nose, hoping to block the scent from assaulting his senses. Ron crouched down next to the body, scanning it from head to toe.

A little girl, who appeared to be no older than seven years old, lain on the cold ground in a pastel yellow nightgown. Her arms were outstretched on either side of her torso. One leg was bent at the knee in an unnatural angle as if it had been repeatedly broken and left to improperly heal; the other, straight. The bairn's long silvery blond hair was fanned above her head. Her lifeless icy-blue eyes were wide open, their expression conveying the fear she must have felt before her life was taken away. The purplish-blue, oxygen deprived lips were agape as if she were screaming. The victim's body glowed and then dimmed, pulsating like a heartbeat slowly fading. When the light finally diminished, it left behind a ghostly pale visage on the young departed.

The light breeze returned. It whipped the innocent's silky hair into her face and across her neck. With added precaution, Knox removed each displaced strand, wary of how much he touched the corpse. Once her throat was uncovered, he leaned in for further inspection. There were scorch marks wrapped completely around it as if she were strangled by two pieces of intertwined rope. The skin was scorched with faint wisps of smoke protruding from the tears, carrying with them the distinct scent of burning flesh; Ronald gagged at the smell. The ravaged wounds were tattooed with abundant flecks of glittering gold.

Standing up, the young agent took a few steps back. He cocked his head to the side and zeroed in on the burnt grass. A perfectly sized shape encased the child within a charred circle; both hands and the single foot were seared as if they were attached to circle, completing the shape. Ron tore his attention from the marks on her flesh and focused it on the long cut in the middle of her chest; her cinematic records were reeling into the sky. Normally, only a Shinigami would be able to see its contents. However, the girl's records were playing at a snail's pace. Knox figured even a mere mortal may be able to see what was on each frame.

Ron turned his back on the victim and walked over to Michaelis, who was standing a fair distance away. He stopped and stood by the demon; an uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. A few minutes later, it was broken by the soft beating of wings overhead. Ron looked up at the cawing ravens that flew into the trees, jostling the green leaves from their branches as they settled on them.

"Sebastian…" said Ronald, his words apprehensive as he spoke.

"Yes?"

Knowing what needed to be done, he quickly weighed his options: should he get William and leave the body with the butler, or should he stay behind and send Michaelis to fetch his senior? Either way, it required that he ask a demon for a favor. He mentally grimaced at the thought.

"Can ya get William from th' infirmary?" he asked, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. The action forced him to hiss at the pressure and friction from his hand—he had forgotten about the bruises around his throat.

Sebastian tilted his head to the side, his dark hair falling over his red eyes. He smiled sardonically with a hint of elation. "As you wish," he replied, bowing low with his right hand on his chest.

Without another word, the Phantomhive butler turned in the direction of the infirmary and with rapid grace, he vaulted over the forest canopy.

* * *

After the light in the woods had disappeared, William returned his attention to his arm, scribbling anything that came to mind that would urge a reply from the blond reaper. He cursed loudly when he received nothing in response, despite his multiple attempts to reach the young man. Spears let out a grunt, his hand's grip around the little pen tightening as his frustration grew.

Just as the Dispatch Supervisor pressed the writing utensil against his arm once more, he heard the faint rustle of clothing. The vein in his temple throbbed and his mouth set in a frigid line as he sensed the identity of the new presence.

"Demon," hissed Will, his tone venomous.

The sound of well-polished, black dress shoes clicking on the white laminate floor approached William; it grew closer until it stopped at the head of the bed. Spears looked up at the butler standing tall before him, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back.

Sebastian looked down at the injured Shinigami with a smile bright with amusement. "The blond reaper sent me to collect you," he informed the man on the bed, his voice elegant and dignified.

"And why would he ask such a thing?"

"I presume he thought it best he stay with the body of the dead child," replied Sebastian. He migrated to stand next to the bed, William's eyes following his every footstep. "Due to your injuries, I'll have to carry you to the forest."

Albeit choosing to not leave the demon unsupervised with the child was the most logical and wisest decision Knox had made, he still loathed the necessity of procuring assistance from a lowly demon. He forced himself to reason with the situation. Will knew the boy wouldn't have sent Michaelis for him if their associates had been with him. Despite that knowledge, William's teeth clicked together in annoyance. He made no motion to move.

Sebastian cocked his head to the side and intently stared at the silent reaper, their eyes connecting with shared disgust. "Perhaps I shall leave you here and return to your adorable little husband. He has been quite lonely here without you, after all." His eyes glowed a crimson red, his smile twisted and charming as he taunted the injured reaper. "I think he could use a comforting hand and a warmer bed…especially after the things Claude Faustus does to him."

Spears' left eye twitched and his hands clenched into tight fits, his white knuckled fingers cracking under the pressure. The pen caught in his grip snapped cleanly in half. "Must I warn you to stay away from him?" Will growled through gritted teeth. "And what of Faustus?"

A soft chuckle escaped Sebastian's throat. "Worry not, reaper. I'm under orders from my master to not harm you nor your associates in any way during this investigation; no matter how delightful either would be," he mocked dryly, rolling his eyes as he waved the threat away. "As for the head of household, I believe you shall see soon enough."

He reached into the pocket of his black vest and pulled out his silver watch. It was getting late—he needed to get back to the Earl. "Shall we be on our way?" he asked, closing the pocket watch with a click before returning it to its place.

Reluctantly, the supervisor nodded his head. His movements were slow and agonizing as he carefully rolled onto his side and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Will cracked his neck from side to side and let out a low groan. He pushed up his glasses and looked at Sebastian. "I suppose it would be prudent for you to carry me on your back," he surmised, sighing with defeat in regards to his bruised ego.

Michaelis turned around and crouched down. With whatever pride and dignity he possessed at that moment, William wrapped his arms around the Phantomhive butler's shoulders, his legs around his waist. Sebastian hooked his arms underneath his thighs, smirking at the painful sound that expelled from the reaper's throat as they sped out the door.

* * *

Back at the scene, the blond Shinigami paced back and forth alongside the ring of dead grass, the black sod crunching under his footsteps. His nerves were riddled with anxiety. With one hand, he scratched the top of his head and chewed the thumb nail on the other. He spun around to walk along the circle in the opposite direction.

Feeling an increase of energy in his surroundings, Knox stopped in his tracks and looked in the direction of the portal opening before him—out stepped Othello and Alan, the portal closing quickly behind them. The two reapers made their way over to the young man.

"Hey guys," said Ronald with a small wave. Othello strolled up to him and held his palm in the air, silently asking for a high-five; Knox responded to the gesture by slapping his hand. Alan, who was free of disguise, greeted him with a kind smile.

Othello looked at the victim, letting out a long whistle as his eyes swept over it. The forensic scientist pulled out a blue latex glove from his white lab coat and put it on his right hand, the stretchy material snapping against his wrist as he did so. He approached the little girl and crouched down with his elbows on his knees. Othello took hold of her chin and gently moved her head from side to side, inspecting her throat. He let go and sighed.

"Just like the others," he remarked, his voice morose. He ran his left hand through his dark hair. He gazed up at Ron. "Where's everyone else?"

Ron flinched uncomfortably at the question. "Sebastian and I arrived first. Since you guys weren't here yet, I uh…had to send him to get Will."

Othello's eyebrows shot to the sky in disbelief. "I bet the boss loved that," he surmised. He stood up and walked over to stand next to Alan, his slippers sinking into the grass as he took his place.

"Have you called for the Undertaker?" asked Alan.

Before the young agent could answer, his eyes caught sight of Michaelis flying over the tree canopy with William clinging to his back. The three reapers watched as Sebastian gracefully landed in front of them. He abruptly let go of William, leaving him to haphazardly stagger backward. Ronald rushed over to William to catch him before he fell to the ground. The brunet let out a pained groan as the blond wrapped his arms around his waist in an effort to hold him up. "S-sorry Will," he stammered, his face flushing with guilt.

Will hooked his arm around his young spouse's shoulders to steady himself, grimacing as he felt the bandages on his back shift. "It's alright, Ronald," the brunet assured him. He cupped his hand behind the boy's neck and yanked him into a kiss. He heard a faint, distressed whimper accompanied by a hand to his wrist as he held his lover in their small embrace. Will removed his lips from Ronald's. "What's wrong?" he asked, his stoic mask slipping to reveal a faintly quizzical and worried expression.

"N-nothing," answered Ron as he pulled the older man's hand from his neck. He bit his lip, refusing to meet his eyes.

The supervisor's brow furrowed with confused suspicion as he watched Knox sway uncomfortably from one foot to the other. William's gaze meandered to Ron's shirt and he tugged on the collar. He gently tilted his head to the side so he could study his neck under the moonlight. Spears looked at his husband, whose cheeks steadily darkened under his scrutiny. His eyes flicked over to Sebastian; the demon was standing nearby, his white-gloved fingers covering his mouth in a lazy attempt to hide his obvious smirk. William reexamined his companion's throat, his cold glare zeroing in on a distinct handprint. His fingers curled in the fabric of Ronald's shirt. The blond looked up at him.

"I'm fine, William," insisted Ronald, hearing the man's knuckles crack. The brunet's eyes connected with his abashed ones. "I promise," he added with a small, timid smile.

Despite the lie, William let go of his husband's clothing. He kissed his forehead and placed his hand on Ron's warm cheek, caressing his thumb along the smooth skin in a loving gesture. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips and moved to greet the two reapers.

"How are you feeling, Humphries?" William asked as he limped over to the smaller man, Ronald in tow. "Have you experienced any attacks?"

Alan held out his hand to greet his superior. "I'm alright, Mr. Spears. I haven't had an attack for a couple of weeks. Thankfully," he answered as the two of them shook hands. "Is Eric ok? I haven't heard from him."

Will summoned his scythe. "Now that I've been sent to assist you, Slingby has taken on a lot of responsibility as temporary supervisor. But I think he'll do quite well with his new duties." As he spoke, he pulled out a long scroll of paper from the glowing blades of his pruning shear—the paper rolled back up when it was removed. "He asked me to give this to you." William handed Alan the letter, who gladly accepted it.

He took a step closer to the smaller reaper. "Has Faustus been treating you well?" he inquired, his voice calm as the bruises around his lover's throat surfaced in his vision.

"Yes," nodded Alan. "Our 'marriage of convenience' is working far better than I'd hoped. We only see each other for appearance's sake. He hasn't slept in the same bed as me after the first week we arrived, so I haven't had to stay in disguise during the night."

"Wait," piped up Othello, cocking his head to the side, "Faustus hasn't been sleeping with you?"

Alan shook his head. "No. He sleeps in the small adjoining room."

"That's odd…" Ron stated, turning to look in the direction of the manor. "Why would he do that?" He scratched the top of his head, his mind wandering in confusion. A few silent minutes had passed before he peered over his shoulder at his fellow reapers. "Where's Grelle?"

* * *

The light of a half-melted white candle lodged into a tarnished brass candleholder illuminated the hallway leading to the servants' quarters. On tender and chafed feet, Grelle Sutcliff slowly made way to her meager bedroom, inordinately excited for her aching joints to find relief after another long day. Passing a few doors abuzz with the soft snores of the Phantomhive servants, she finally made it to her room. She swung open the creaking door and stumbled inside. Grelle kicked off the plain, one-inch black high heels she was forced to wear as soon as she crossed the threshold. An exhausted yawn escaped her throat as she walked over to the wardrobe pressed against the wall on the other side of the bed, lighting the candles on the small table sitting next to it.

The crimson reaper opened the wardrobe and stared into the long mirror with a cracked corner hanging on the inner door, taking in her ghastly appearance and dull ensemble. She was dressed head to toe in her issued uniform. On top of her head was a black head piece with white frills covering her once beautiful, vibrant crimson hair, which was tied in a knot at the base of her head. Her long sleeved, black dress was covered by a white frilly pinafore that spanned the length of her outfit, tied in the back into a bow; a white Peter Pan collar donned the neckline.

Grelle pulled the pin from her bun, allowing her long brittle, red locks to cascade down her back; dull colored tendrils fluttered to the floor at her feet. She brushed her hair over her shoulder and reached behind her neck to begin unbuttoning her uniform. As she popped the button closest to the nape, a knock tapped on her bedroom door. She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight, a dreadful and pained expression on her face. She bowed her head to the hardwood floor and silently whimpered. The tap on the door sounded again and it creaked open, an intruder stepping over the threshold.

Slow, heavy footsteps walking with only one purpose strolled up behind her. One hand wearing a white glove was placed on her shoulder, the other tilting her head to the side. Grelle winced as dark hair fell over her neck, her skin crawling as open mouth kisses were pressed along her skin. Beneath the dark hair, golden eyes reflected in the mirror, staring into her yellow-green ones.

"Good evening, Mr. Faustus."

* * *

"Well?" asked Ronald, swiveling to face the group. William stood there leaning against his scythe while Alan and Othello stared at one another. "Have ya seen her?" he snapped, throwing his arm in the air.

"She could be sleeping, Ronnie," offered Alan.

The young man let out a sarcastic huff. "Alan-senpai, do ya really think Grelle would miss any sort of action?"

"No, but even Grelle has her limits. I'm sure she's just resting," the smaller man insisted. He briefly glanced at his superior. "It's been a trying day for all of us."

"But—"

"Ronald, after I'm assigned to my duties tomorrow morning, I will speak to Sutcliff," interrupted William with a firm, authoritative tone, effectively cutting off his husband's impending argument. "For now, we must tend to the matter at hand. Is that understood?" He waited patiently for Knox to nod his head in agreement. "Good."

Spears fixated his attention on the little girl laying on the ground. In an effort to prevent his wounds from reopening, he utilized his scythe as a makeshift staff, gingerly walking over to the victim. He beheld her tampered cinematic records, taking in the pictures as they slowly played. His eyes honed in on a particular frame—one that was frayed, causing the reels to repeatedly skip at the altered section before continuing. "Call for the Undertaker," he ordered. Will let out a deep, exhausted sigh and readjusted his glasses. "The child has been laying here long enough."

The ravens perched in the trees flapped their wings in anticipation. Knox glanced up at the birds and whistled the mortician's favorite tune—one that always threw him into a fit of giggles, regardless of the reason for his summoning. The birds cawed in acknowledgement and took off, their wings batting the ovate leaves from the branches as they began their journey to the Undertaker.

* * *

 **NOTES:** If you would like to continue reading, please head over to **archive of our own** and search for **hellosweetie17**!

On that website, the story is rated _Explicit_ for things such as explicit sexual content, graphic depictions of violence, physical and sexual abuse, etc.


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